An unreliable test
On the vulnerability of throwing parties
It was my birthday last week. And this year I decided, a little on impulse, to mark the occasion with a party.
Having a party feels like a vulnerability. You pluck up the courage to celebrate, invite people to come and do the same, trying to ignore the voice which asks a question you don’t really want answered. Who cares? It’s not unlike the experience of writing a book. You put yourself in the middle, a thing that comes naturally to very few of us, hoping other people will care. That they’ll prove you wrong and show up. There is, always, the very real possibility that they won’t. From my experience – of both party-throwing and book-writing – this fear is a valid one. But I’ve also found that, no matter how small the turnout, someone always does show up.
In the past I have carried a lot of similar anxieties when planning and running literature events, desperately pushing the publicity to make sure there were ‘bums-on-seats’. At least in those instances the no-shows don’t feel personal. Except that, for the author appearing beside a table stacked with their hard-backed hard work, it is personal. I have the utmost respect for people who seem unbothered by a micro audience, but I am suspicious, too. Can anyone be entirely immune to that feeling? Of putting yourself out there, and being let down? We rarely admit to our own vulnerabilities, in case they signal weakness, shallowness, or childish insecurity.
I know I feel much safer when I don’t test the ‘who cares?’ hypothesis. (Though, in the context of the writing itself, this question is one of my most well-used and important ones. Many non-fiction authors do not ask it of themselves, and their material, enough.) That’s why I haven’t had a party since I plucked up the courage to hire a bar out for my twenty-first, and found tears spilling onto my cheeks when I realised that about half of the guest list hadn’t shown up. Needless to say, I felt like the silly one for caring.
I had thought, when I got married earlier this year, that weddings were an exception to the rule. I was mostly right: we had a brilliant turn-out and the most wonderful day. But when it came to the party in the evening – when I realised, intermittently, that there were a few missing faces I had expected to see – I couldn’t avoid the familiar pang of disappointment. A tiny heart-sink in what was otherwise a time brim-full of love and care. The other side of it is that when so many people in your life show up to celebrate with you, the joy is almost overwhelming. Neither Andrew nor I could believe how lucky we were, or how loved we felt. Buoyed by this feeling, we vowed to bring our favourite people together more often, to use any small excuse to celebrate and gather. And so, when my birthday came around this year, I decided to have a party.
The thing to remember is that the results of this test are not reliable. While someone showing up to celebrate you is usually evidence that they do, indeed, care, another person who doesn’t make it isn’t necessarily proving the opposite. Life happens, shit comes up, calendars fill and plans get derailed. It’s not always personal, even when it feels as though it is. And, I think, that fear of rejection isn’t a good enough reason not to do something. The trick is to do it on your terms and with a healthy attitude. What will be will be. You are loved by the people who show up (and probably by the ones who don’t, too.)
Crucially, this time around, I redefined ‘party’ in my vocabulary. Like we did for our wedding: preconceived ideas of what ‘should’ take place were thrown out of the window wherever possible. I wanted just a few close friends, just an evening at our house, some food and some drinks – but it would nevertheless be a party.
I told everyone that the dress code was ‘the thing you hardly ever get the chance to wear’: this would be the occasion, and I would make it so. My oldest, closest friend travelled the long way north especially – as she did all those years ago for my twenty-first – and, once more, helped get everything ready. The rain poured outside. My handful of guests showed up dripping on our doorstep, only to reveal their fabulous outfits. We had the fire roaring and records playing. I made old-fashioned punch in the bowl I had found in a local charity shop this year, ladling it with glee into little matching glasses. I did it all on my own terms, brought together the things and the people I like without apology, or fearing judgement, and I think at twenty-nine, I finally cracked the code of what I want a birthday party to be.
I still didn’t avoid the fear – the niggle that people I cared about wouldn’t come, or that they would and not enjoy themselves. At twenty-nine I haven’t grown out of that tendency to attach my worth to the tangible display of people ‘caring.’ But, as with the wedding, this also meant that when my friends did show up, soggy and cheerful, bearing gifts I really didn’t expect, and unconditional enthusiasm for my quirks, it meant the world. Just as when my book was launched and friends and family travelled to celebrate the moment. Just as my Mum surprised me with a Seaglass themed cake, or when all everyone gave a resounding yes to our wedding invitations. Just as when someone unexpected tells me they read my recent Substack post, and loved it. I care – whether I’m meant to or not – and every time, it means the world.
Yes: getting hopes up can be scary, and having them let down can absolutely sting. But these acts – when people show up, show they care, show that something matters – I think all that is very much worth it.
I made an enormous bowl of sparkling punch; sliced limes and clementines, emptied the freezer drawer of ice… and part of me wondered if I was testing fate, or living oblivious in my own world. It wouldn’t be the first time. But by the end of the night, the bowl was empty. And my world, held inside our warm and busy house, was decidedly a very good place to be.
November went by in a flash, as it seems to every year.
You know the feeling – that we’ve been catapulted into the festive season, grabbing whatever Black Friday discounts and early nights we could as we went by. It’s well and truly December now.
The days are almost at their shortest, and this morning I woke early, tugged into the darkness before my alarm, by a large, low-hanging moon. It was setting, golden orange, like the sun had gotten lost in the unfamiliar night sky.
I found much of this past month to be hard work – lots to keep in the air, lots of water to tread and, ironically, almost no time at my local pool to swim away the stress (not helped by whatever relentless bug has been going round this autumn). I made it there on Monday night, for the first time in an age, and left feeling as though I’d finally managed to wash off the accumulation of November – just in time to go again.
There were certainly high-highs this month, however. At Folding Rock we released our third issue of the magazine – at a triumphant launch, abundant with happy writers, readers, and bums-on-seats. We announced our first advisory board – a treasure trove of expertise we’re really proud to have behind us. We completed our first year’s publication cycle, and lived to tell the tale.
Then of course there was snow, twinkling frost, a beautiful couple of mornings in the garden at Goddards… There were fireworks and full-works hot chocolates, our winter firewood delivery (huzzah!), the kitchen walls rolled in yolk yellow paint, and dear old friends come to stay. Ice skating, go-karting, epic prawn cocktail. A windy beach walk, a few rainy drives, and a flipping freezing birthday dip in the swimming ponds at Pool Bridge Farm.
My own writing has made way for lots of research lately. I’ve been diving into books, podcasts and academic papers spanning Earth science, geology, palaeontology and deep time. Not to mention a visit to a particularly interesting corner of the Natural History Museum. I’ve also been spending a lot of time (too much time) glued to the live feed from the camera attached to the International Space Station as it does laps around our planet, watching as it crosses from day to night, night to day, and the Earth slips by like river water down below. It’s a wonderful thing to discover – but quite addictive. You have been warned.
This afternoon, less than twelve hours after I saw it set, I watched the almost-full moon rise again into a lavender dusk. Moon rise and moon set. It feels like a very wintry way to mark the turning of the Earth. I’m at my desk from dawn till well after dark most days now, sitting in the chilly curve of my bay windows, noticing the light change around me as I type.
I don’t mind though. There’s lots to enjoy about this time of year – and now is the time, before the woodstore empties and the novelty of colder weather wears off. I’ll be stepping out from the usual letter next month, and instead sharing some wider reflections on the year just past – and the one ahead. Can you believe the next time I write to you will be in 2026? Lets not dwell too long on that.
Till then, be warm, enjoy the solstice, and maybe step out later – if the sky is clear – and say hello to our winter moon. She’s been gloriously bright this week. Time it right, and perhaps you’ll spot the ISS passing over too.
KT x